


Of Broken Boys and Spello-tape

by Ravne13



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Broken, M/M, Plot? What Plot?, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Sad Harry, Sad Severus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 08:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10827333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravne13/pseuds/Ravne13
Summary: Harry Potter and Severus Snape live life after the war. Both are broken. Both are healing with a little help from each other. Written for the Severus Snape Appreciation Month, Day 5: Spinner's End.   ... and sorta for Day 6: Snape's Parents.





	Of Broken Boys and Spello-tape

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I'm not sure what or how this happened. I never write one-shots. I never write stuff without smut in it. I never write drama. I never write stuff without plot! Where did this come from? What's happening to me?!?

They were both broken, both shattered beyond repair. The war had taken more out of them than either thought possible. It had taken more out of everyone than anyone thought possible. The Wizarding World of Great Britain had been decimated. And now, nearly ten years after the end of conflict, it was still struggling to stand again. 

Harry Potter and Severus Snape lived a quiet life in a countryside cottage they’d bought together. Snape had built himself a potions lab in the back of their property, literally from the ground up. He ran a neat potions business, working and experimenting to his heart’s content. 

Sometimes he forgot to eat, forgot to sleep, forgot the time. And if he worked too long Harry would show up at the door stern-faced, and Snape would put his potions under stasis, and follow Harry back to the cottage without complaint. He found he worked better if he was well fed, well rested, and trusted Harry to take care of him when he lost himself to his work. 

But that’s who Harry was. He took care of everyone else before himself. It was Harry’s tireless work that turned the dusty old cottage into a warm home Snape was preoccupied building his lab. A cottage filled with light, and windows and love and laughter.  
Harry was the one who tamed the wild English countryside surrounding their home, replacing the wild tangle of brush into sprawling gardens and orchards where he grew all the beautiful flowers and fruits he could want, as well as all but the most exotic potions ingredients for Snape. And those exotic ingredients, he grew in his greenhouses. 

Harry made sure Snape could want for nothing. He made sure he was happy. Or, because happy and Snape couldn’t possibly go hand in hand, content. 

And this made Harry happy. His shattered nerves were soothed under the English sun, the dirt under his nails, surrounded by growth and beauty and life. The buzzing of bees, the singing of birds, the sound of the wind through his trees. They were what kept Harry calm. Happy. This was his choice. His happy choice. He loved taking care of his home. He loved taking care of Snape, his bondmate. 

It was this quality in Harry that caused him to notice things about Snape. When he was too tired, or hungry, when he worked too hard or too long. When he had nightmares. Snape didn’t know it, and Harry had never mentioned, but Snape spoke in his sleep. Fearful mutterings, tossing and turning. 

Harry would turn over and soothe him back into restful slumber. Run warm hands over clenched muscles, loosen digging fingers from the Mark, run fingers through lank hair. Snape would always soothe, would always calm under Harry’s expert touch. Sometimes Snape did the same for Harry, but Harry frequently suffered in silence. And he liked it that way. He didn’t wish to burden an already troubled mind with the dark visions that plagued him. 

And then one night, the name that fell from Snape’s mouth changed. It wasn’t Dark Lord, or Lucius, or Albus, or even Draco. But instead it was Papa.

“Papa! Papa no! Stop!” Harry turned over, sleepy and puzzled. He’d never heard Snape say that name. “Papa, please! It hurts!” Snape was tossing, flinging his hands out, warding away invisible blows. “Ouch! Papa!”

Harry did as his heart commanded. He reached and put a hand on Snape’s arm. Snape cried out and cringed away. Harry wasn’t deterred. It often took a bit of coaxing for Snape to receive comfort. 

“Shh, you’re alright.” Harry murmured, running soothing hands over Snape’s arm, his chest, his face. He slid closer and wrapped a strong arm around Snape’s waist, nuzzling his face into Snape’s shoulder. “You’re alright, Sev. You’re safe. You’re at home with me. With Harry.” 

Slowly, Snape calmed. And soon his breathing was deep and even, and his arm was wrapped tightly around Harry, holding him close. Harry sighed and snuggled close, wrapping the blanket tighter around them. 

 

OoOoOoOoOoO

 

“Sev, I want to ask you something.” Harry said at breakfast the next morning. They were in the kitchen, Snape sitting at the table by the wall of windows, Harry standing at the stove stirring a pot of porridge and making sure the bacon and toast didn’t burn. 

Snape looked up from the morning Prophet and it took a moment for his mind to come to focus on Harry, distracted by his reading. He frowned when Harry hesitated. 

“Yes?” he asked. Harry dallied, begging leave and spooning Snape’s porridge into a bowl and placed it before him, along with a platter of toast, sausages, and bacon for them to share, and took his seat with his own bowl before him. Then he poured their tea, black with two sugars for Snape, milky with four sugars for Harry. 

“Sev, is your father still alive?” he asked finally. Snape’s face blanked, then he frowned thunderously.

“No, that wretched man is dead. And good riddance. Why?” he all but snarled. Harry was unimpressed with the display. He’d become immune to such evasive tactics long ago. 

“You…” he hesitated, then soldiered on. “You dreamt about him last night.” Snape’s face showed shock, then he flushed in frustrated embarrassment. He cleared his throat and dug into his breakfast, obviously dismissing the matter. 

“Will you tell me about him? About your mother?” Harry asked. Snape coughed and covered his mouth with his napkin and then took a sip of his tea. He glared at Harry. 

“No I will not.” He said before shoving away from the table and walking out the back door, heading off to his lab.

 

OoOoOoOoOoO

 

Harry didn’t bring up the subject again for a few days and Snape thought he’d forgotten the matter. But bring it up he did. The results were the same. Snape refused and left to work, frustrated and angry. Harry left it be and went about his own day, alternating writing in their little library and working outside in his gardens. 

But he never left it for long. He waited a few days and would ask again, and again Snape would refuse. This went on for a few weeks, until finally Snape threw down the Prophet, spilling his teacup and sending his toast skittering to the floor. 

“Why!?” he thundered, slamming a hand down on the table. “Why do you want to know? Why won’t you let me be!?” Harry moved away from Snape, leaning against the wall and placing his shaking hands palm down on the wall behind him, grounding himself and calming his racing heart. 

Snape saw what he had done, how he’d startled Harry, who couldn’t take much excitement since the war ended before his nerves began to bother him and he’d have panic attacks. He saw that Harry was grounding himself, that he was calming down and he knew Harry wouldn’t need assistance this time calming down. 

But he felt regret, remorse. He hated it when he lost his temper and sent Harry into panic. And after all Harry did for him. He didn’t deserve it, no matter he was being an annoying brat. He didn’t deserve it. 

“Why? Why do you need to know, Harry?” He asked, voice measured and calm. Harry took a breath and sat back down, his shaking hands reduced to a light trembling. 

“I don’t necessarily need to know, but I’d like to.” Harry replied, thoughtfully. “It’s a part of you I don’t know. And it’s a part of you that you’ve buried. And it still affects you. After all these years, it still affects you.” Harry leaned down and picked up the errant toast, placing it on the edge of the table and then rightening Snape’s teacup. 

“Remember my counselor from after the war? She made me talk about things. About the Dursley’s and about the war and what I was forced to do. It hurt, to talk about. It was hard. And I hated it. But when I spoke about it, I confronted it. And was able to accept it, even a little, and begin to heal. To move on.” 

Harry poured Snape another cup of tea, almost without thinking. And Snape watched him do it. Watched him righten the teacup, pour a fresh cup, and prepare it just the way he liked it. Without any thought. Almost without looking. 

And he thought of how broken Harry was after the war. How irreparably broken the young man was. His night terrors, his fits of panic, his bursts of accidental magic. How he was forced to spend a time in St. Mungos, sharing a room with Gilderoy Lockhart for a time. How he was forced to sleep and eat at a regular schedule, how he went to three counseling sessions a day. To talk. To learn how to help himself. To heal. 

And Snape thought of how the boy thrived. How he began to pick up the pieces of his life. How he pieced himself back together, coming to terms with his losses, and began to move on. 

Snape never received that kind of care. Not in this way. In some ways, Harry had fixed and been there. Had helped him. But in the scope of things, he’d been keeping Snape afloat. And this was his way of attempting to help him out of the water. 

Snape was excellent at compartmentalizing. He knew he buried it all… all the bad things. Where Harry had fixed, with spello-tape and glue and dirt and sun, Snape had picked up the pieces and shoved them in a box. Not bothering to fix. Not bothering to mend. Not bothering to move on. 

And he should move on. He owed it to Harry, his life and partner in all things. He owed it to Harry to move on. Well. Not just to Harry. Maybe he owed it to himself. Maybe just a bit. 

“My father’s name was Tobias Snape and my mother’s name was Eileen Prince.” Snape began. Harry looked startled, but then smiled encouraging. And the look was so open, so hopeful and honest and innocent, Snape had to look away. 

“Tobias was a muggle. Drunk and stupid with jealousy and hatred. Eileen-” Snape swallowed, surprised when his voice shook. “She was sad and lonely. She came from a small family, and was left alone fairly young, her parents dying when she was still in Hogwarts.” 

Snape spoke while looking out the windows into Harry’s garden. The window was partially blocked with Harry’s sunflowers, grown tall at nearly six feet. The flowerbeds in the back were blooming with life, buzzing with bees. Snape could see his lab tucked away behind some trees, surrounded by green and growing things and longed to escape. But he stayed. For Harry. For himself. 

“And then she fell for the first man to show her an ounce of kindness, let alone that it was a drunken, abusive muggle. She… she didn’t think she deserved any better.” Snape picked up his tea and took a fortifying swallow before placing it back on the saucer. He dared look at Harry who was sitting calmly, looking at him with an open expression. No hint of judgement. Only curiosity and sadness. 

“That house. That horrible house on Spinners end. It was dark. Dirty and dark. My mother was sad and subdued. She was once such a bright witch. She had so much promise. But Tobias. That man. That… that jealous, hateful, horrid man. He squashed it. He was jealous of my mother’s magic. He was jealous of my magic. And he took out all his anger, all his jealousy on us.” 

“He ruled the house with fists and belt. He broke bones more than once. My mother fared no better.” Snape was horrified to find his hands shaking. He tucked them under the table and then turned and looked out the window. Unable to watch Harry’s expression for the next part. 

“Tobias killed my mother in a drunken rage when I was fifteen years old.” Harry sucked in a shaky breath. Snape didn’t look. “I was at Hogwarts. I never knew the exact details and I never asked. Tobias died in a muggle prison a few months later, and I was left that house.”

“I lived there during summers, but I couldn’t stand it. The house stank of him. Of his legacy. Of his hate. When the war ended, I closed it up and haven’t returned.” Snape sat back in his chair, and blinked away the frustrated tears. He’d finished his tea. He’d finished his toast and eggs. And he had nothing to do with his hands. Nothing to distract them with.

Finally, he turned to Harry. His Harry. His Harry who had eyes brimming with tears. Snape, his hands still shaking, turned sideways in his chair and opened his arms. Wordlessly, Harry stood and rounded the table. He settled himself in Snape’s lap, accepting the comfort, and giving it in return. 

It was a bit awkward, Snape was taller than Harry but where he was lanky Harry had more bulk. More heavy muscle than Snape did. The chair dug uncomfortably into the back of his thighs, but he ignored it, and without any fuss or fight, accepted Harry’s comforting embrace. Accepted the shaking hand carding through his hair. 

“You shouldn’t cry for me, brat.” Snape murmured fondly. Harry sniffed hard and let out a small laugh. “I’m not crying.” He said, a bit indignantly. Snape smiled, and buried his nose in Harry’s messy hair.

 

OoOoOoOoOoO

 

A few months later found them standing outside Spinners End, the small dirty river at their backs. Snape stared up at the building, loathing and revulsion showing on his face. 

He felt sick. He’d sworn he’d never come back. But Harry had insisted. Had pestered and cajoled until he’d worn his bondmate down and now here they were. Standing outside of the absolute last place Snape wanted to be. 

Harry stood beside him, his hand warm and solid against Snape’s own, their fingers wrapped tightly around the other’s. It was raining, but neither bothered to cast Impervius.

“Is there anything inside you want?” Harry asked suddenly. Snape turned and looked at him, incredulously. 

“What?” he said, frowning. Harry repeated the question, still staring at the house. A fierce and protective frown marring his features. 

Snape looked at the house and thought of what was inside. He’d taken all his personal belongings, all his books and potions supplies. He’d taken what little personal possessions of his mother’s he could, and left all Tobias’s things behind in boxes in his parent’s old room.

“…No. I took everything worth keeping when I closed it up.” Snape said hesitantly. Harry turned to look at him, grinning. Snape was startled at the sudden change in mood. And maybe a little wary as well. 

“Well then. Let’s destroy it.” Harry said. Snape looked at him, incredulous. 

“Have you lost your mind?” He exclaimed. Harry shook his head and turned back to the house. His grin gone as quick as it came. 

It was moments like these that reminded Snape of how badly the young man had lost it after the war ended. When the losses of his friends and the weight of his actions weighed too much. Harry as a child and teenager was reckless, yes. But he was never so… fluid in his emotions. In his moods. That Harry was predictable, warm and soft-hearted. And this one was not. He was all sharp edges and hard angles. 

“There’s nothing here but darkness and bad memories. We’ll protect the houses surrounding it, and burn it to the ground. We’ll leave it to the muggles, let them build a new home. A new start for a new family.” Harry said, voice soft. 

Snape thought hard. He thought on all the time he spent hiding in that house. Of all the time he spent hiding outside that house. How he met the little girl down the road with flaming red hair who became his best friend. How the influence of his father helped him along the way to losing that best friend. He thought of the cupboard he used to hide in, the squeaky dirty bed he slept in. Tobias’s angry red face and his mother’s hurt cries. Her sobs through the thin walls. 

“Alright,” Snape said, pulling his hand away from Harry’s and withdrawing his wand. They were already under a notice-me-not charm, and wouldn’t need to worry about prying muggle eyes. Harry grinned and pulled his own wand from its holster.

“I’ll place a temporary ward on the surrounding houses. You set the fire.” Harry said, raising his wand. Snape’s wand rose in tandem. Yes, he thought. A fire, hot and brutal, to cleanse the stain of the house. 

“Protego horribilis!” Harry yelled, and a burst of light came from his wand, surrounding the house, ensuring that the inferno would be contained.

“Incendio!” Snape growled, sending the fire through the windows of the lower floor. He repeated the spell, sending a ball of flame through each window. 

It took less than a minute before the house was engulfed in flames. Harry maintained his spell, now a thin shimmering shield surrounding the house, easily mistaken for heat and smoke, as the neighborhood came alive around them.

Muggles ran from their homes, screaming and yelling in panic. Snape kept an eye on the goings on while Harry maintained his protective spell, and he watched with glee as the cursed house burned to cinders before his eyes. 

The fire brigade arrived, but by then it was much too late. There was absolutely nothing they could do. The house collapsed in on itself no more than ten minutes after they cast the spells, and Snape felt a palpable weight lift from his shoulders. He felt oddly light, a bubble of happiness and mirth rising in his chest. He felt giddy with excitement, with release. 

Harry let the protective spell fall, no longer needed. He turned to Snape and smiled. He held out his hand and, Snape took it, warm fingers entwining. 

Snape could almost feel a piece fitting back into place, and the spello-tape slotting it down. 

He smiled, a true smile, and Harry grinned back. So what if he was broken. They were both broken. But now, together, they could mend. Heedless of the chaos around them, and safe under their notice-me-not charm, Snape leaned in and kissed Harry’s laughing mouth.


End file.
